“I shipped part of my goods on the railroad,” remarked grandma Padgett with—a laugh. “But I don't know; I ain't used to the things, and I don't know whether I'd resk my bones for a long distance or not. Son Tip went out on the cars.”
“The railroads charge so high,” murmured a woman near the back wheels. “But they do say you can ride as far West as you're a goin' on the cars.”
“How long will you be gettin' through?” inquired another.
“Not more than two or three weeks,” replied grandma Padgett resolutely. “It's a little better than three hundred and fifty miles, I believe.”
“That's a long distance,” sighed the neighbor at the wheels.
But aunt Corinne and her nephew, untroubled by the length of pilgrimage before them, ran from the well into the garden.
“I wish the kerns were ripe,” said aunt Corinne. “Look out, Bobaday! You're drabblin' the bottoms of your good pants.”
“'Twouldn't do any good if the kerns were ripe,” said Bobaday, turning his pepper-and-salt trousers up until the linings showed. “This farm ain't ours now, and we couldn't pull them.”
Aunt Corinne paused at the fennel bed: then she impulsively stretched forth her hand and gathered it full.
“I set out these things,” said aunt Corinne, “and I ain't countin' them sold till the wagon starts.” So she gathered sweetbrier, and a leaf of sage and two or three pinks.